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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27539854">Check in Early With Our Ap (Anybody Want a Frappe?)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy'>Missy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Princess Bride (1987)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops &amp; Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Co-workers, College, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Friendship, Humor, Multi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:07:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,016</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27539854</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Buttercup's job at Revenge Coffee Shop and Bakery ("where the prices are inconceivably low!") is the pits, but her co-workers and customers make it better.</p><p>Even the stock boy with blue-gray eyes and an infuriatingly calm smile who saved her from falling into the espresso machine this morning.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Buttercup/Westley (Princess Bride), Fezzik/Inigo Montoya, Miracle Max/Valerie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Yuletide 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Check in Early With Our Ap (Anybody Want a Frappe?)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestarsapart/gifts">thestarsapart</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was four in the morning, and Buttercup was stuck trying to clean an enormous espresso machine out entirely by herself with a very large brush and a very small container of lemon-scented cleaner.</p><p>It was the last way she wanted to spend her Wednesday but, starving college student that she was, Butercup did not have the luxury to be particularly choosy.  At least the exterior was gleaming brightly, and she wouldn’t have to do much more polishing after flushing out its guts for its daily use. But when she tried to straighten and climb down off the counter to safety, Buttercup came to the abrupt and horrifying realization that she was stuck in the belly of the beast.</p><p>“Help!” She shouted, hoping to attract the baker at work in the back kitchen, or the fellow who always arrived early to craft ‘artisanal sandwiches’ for the afternoon crowd.  But no one arrived, and horrifying visions of Mr. Vizzini, the owner of Revenge Coffee Shop and Bakery (where the prices were inconceivably low!) having to rescue her filled her head.  She’d be fired for sure.  She’d have to beg or more money from her parents, who could barely pay off the expenses she accrued as it was.</p><p>All at once, she was hauled backward.  Creamy-colored halogen light flooded Buttercup’s vision, and she let out a yelp of surprise as she was lifted away of the espresso machine by a pair of strong arms, then placed gently upon the floor.  Happy to be free though she was, she turned and glared malevolently at her rescuer.</p><p> “I didn’t ask you to help me, stock boy,” Buttercup sneered.  </p><p>He pointed to his nametag and peered up at her through his blond bangs, a faint smile lighting his face – one that had begun to irritate her over the past few weeks over their multiple shared shifts.  She squinted at his nametag…Westley?  Oh that had to have been made up. “Miss…” he began, in a polished British accent, and she remembered dimly that he was an expat drama major attending Guilder University</p><p> “…Buttercup.”  For the hundredth time she laid a cursed the ‘creativity’ of her parents, who had come up with her first name when they were living out a residency an artists' commune called Florin.  <i>We’ll call her Buttercup!  ‘Cause we want her to be a totally pretty as a flower!</i> rang the sound of her father’s valley boy accent in the back of her head.</p><p>“Buttercup, you have a lovely face.  It would be a shame if it smelled forever of cheap Columbian dark roast,” said Westley.  With that, he donned a baseball cap and an apron and gloves, to prepare for the first wave of customers.  She still didn’t know why Mr. Vizzini had already entrusted him with the awesome responsibility of opening the shop this morning.</p><p>“Unlike you, I wash,” she muttered, tucking her own hat on, then running water through the machine until it was completely clean.  He rolled his eyes and unlocked the front door to their typical morning rush.  </p><p>That shift proceeded as the last dozen had before it.  She poured coffee, espresso, blended frappes, made smoothies and boxed all sorts of baked goods.  Mainly, she avoided Westley and occasionally gave him orders that he followed without question.</p><p>She checked the clock as the line thinned.  Fortunately, one of her favorite customers arrived.</p><p>“Coffee!  Coffee is the reason why I’ve come here…today!” declared the priest who always arrived at 8:50 sharp, leaving him just enough time to grab a simple cup of joe and a chocolate donut before running to his church and conducting morning mass.</p><p>“Your usual, Father?” asked Westley.  </p><p>“Oh, a twist would be fine – some of that cinnamon syrup.  Variety…is the spice of life.”</p><p>Westley smiled and mixed together syrup and cream.  Buttercup prepared a box of danishes and muffins for the mother in the sweatsuit standing beside him, adding the last donut into the priest's take-out box.</p><p>The pressed the intercom button after passing the woman her coffee.  “Fezzik, we’re out of the filled and the plain raise, and about to be out of the chocolate dipped,” she said.</p><p>She gave the priest his donuts just as Westley arrived with the coffee, and their hands brushed briefly as they handed the objects simultaneously over to the priest.</p><p>Buttercup ignored the sudden electric charge of the moment, taking the priest’s money and stuffing it into the register, then taking care of the soccer mom.  There was a second of silence, and she filled it by mopping the counter.</p><p>The gentle booming sound of Fezzik coming up the back stairs that led to the basement brick ovens where they baked the Revenge’s bread and other pastries stopped everything and made Westley and Buttercup grin.  The giant man’s head brushed the ceiling as he wheeled the cart in from the back door, allowing Buttercup and Westley to stock the open bakery cases with fresh goods.</p><p>“There we go.  I had a double run on peanut butter, so I stuffed the last of the donuts with it.”  His big hand came down gently on top of Buttercup’s head, a fond tousling gesture.  “Hello, Lady.”</p><p>“Hello, Fezzik,” she said.  Fezzik had become like a big brother to her over the past year, and they often spent weekends together talking – he about his wrestling team victories, she about her failed attempts at smithing together jewelry for her design classes.  </p><p>“Is Inigo here?”</p><p>“Not until eleven,” she reminded him.  He’d be relieving her that afternoon, and she had one class before she could relax for the day.</p><p>“Ahh  - you lose track of time down in the bakery,” he explained.   With a smile, he took the trolley back to the basement.</p><p>The door slammed open, its bell jingling violently.  “Buttercup!” shouted a familiar voice from the doorway.  “Did you save me a cronut?”</p><p>Max – who was older than any man Buttercup had ever seen, and indeed, any man in the known universe, - toddled across the threshold, leaning on a cane and his back hunched, but with a lively look in his eye.</p><p>“You shouldn’t be eating cronuts!” His equally-ancient wife, Valerie, protested as she followed him inside.  “They’re filled with oils, and oils make you gassy!”</p><p>“I’m eight-eight,” Max said.  “I’ll burp, I’ll live.”</p><p>“He’ll live!” Valerie said, approaching the counter.  “The man just had a stress test and the doctors said ‘you look great for eighty eight!  You got arteries like an Olympic runner!  But you got an ulcer!  No more fat!  No kugel!’  So what does he do?  He goes out and eats fried chicken!”</p><p>“So what?  I’ll die with a smile on my face,” Max retorted.  Westley was already pouring the water for Valerie’s custom cup of tea, and he waited by the microwave for her cranberry nut muffin, then pulled it free piping hot and added a little cup of fresh butter.  Buttercup had Max’s usual order – a toasted poppyseed bagel with cream cheese, and butter, a cronut with chocolate coating, a big cup of coffee with two sugars and one cream.</p><p>“Did you get the Times in?” Valerie asked.</p><p>“Bottom of the rack,” Westley said, and he walked around the counter  to help Valerie but Valerie batted his hands away.  </p><p>“I’m not dead yet, sonny,” she informed him.  “Max!  I’m getting the table.”</p><p>“Then get the table!” Max yelled.</p><p>Valerie  got the paper and her dish and staked out their usual table near the back of the café, by the large picture window, where they could gossip about those who passed by.</p><p>“It’d be lovely to be like them someday, wouldn’t it?” Westley observed.</p><p>“They fight like two wet cats,” Buttercup observed.</p><p>“A fine mark of true love,” he said.  “You should look about for it sometime.”</p><p>Inigo arrived a moment later, wearing dark sunglasses, his dark hair shoved back into a hoodie.  “Have you seen Fezzik?”</p><p>“He’s in the basement,” said Westley.  Inigo sighed and put on a hairnet before washing his hands and getting to work.</p><p>“We live by the moon ,” he declared, his Spanish accent lilting.  Buttercup knew he was a fencing champion, but had no idea of his capacity for poetry.</p><p>Buttercup’s next thought was abutted by an arrogant voice, audible before he stepped through the front door.  </p><p>“Buttercup!   My dulcet darling.”  Her blood turned cold as Humperdinck entered the shop, a bouquet of roses in his hand, falling to knees before her.</p><p>“What on earth are you doing here?” she snapped.  </p><p>“I’ve come to woo you, my dear,” he said, with a patient drawl usually reserved for small children.<br/></p><p>“You broke up with me last week,” she said.  “In fact, you told me that I was so unsophisticated that you were embarrassed to be seen with me.”  Humperdinck’s parents were  rich people who owned a penthouse on the east side – the second Humperdinck had met her parents the relationship was over.</p><p>“I misspoke!  A lover’s tiff!” He laughed, and Westley shot him a malevolent glare.  “A tiff that might be resolved with tickets to the Guilder-Florin home game tomorrow night...”</p><p>“I would swallow boiling oil before going with you!” Buttercup said.</p><p>Suddenly, Westley was beside her.  “Are you going to leave the premises or will I be forced to escort you from it?”</p><p>Humperdinck’s handsome, pleading face took on a condescending sneering cast.  “Has Vizzini finally hired security for this…may I be so indelicate?...dump?”</p><p>Westley stood up taller and straighter, and Buttercup’s heart began to beat loudly in her ears.  “No.  it’s not the shop I’m protecting.” </p><p>“Me either,” said Inigo.</p><p>“And so am I,” Fezzik said from the doorway.  His brow quirked in confusion.  “Though I can’t say that I know why.”  Inigo went to stand with his boyfriend, and they stood hand in hand, a united front.</p><p>“And that goes double for me!” said Max from the corner.</p><p>“What’re you going to fight him with?” Valerie said. “Your replacement hip?”</p><p>“I can trip him with my cane!” Max yelled at his wife.<br/></p><p>“What is going on?” Mr. Vizzini shouted, entering from the back room.  His displeasure in their lack of productivity was evident.  “You!  The one in the scarf and turtleneck, standing between me and untold riches – get out of my coffee shop!”</p><p>“I was leaving,” Humperdinck sniffed.  “The offer continues to stand, dear.”  With that he left the room with his dignity barely intact.</p><p>“Philistines!” shouted Mr. Vizzini, as he threw his hands up, watching the four of them try to carefully place the sticks of honey in their proper barrels.  “Utter and complete philistines!  The four of you, back to work!”</p><p>“It’s noon,” Buttercup said.  “And that happens to mark the end of my shift.”</p><p>“Mine as well,” Westley said, handing the keys back to Vizzini so he or Inigo could lock up.  They took off their uniforms.</p><p>“Fine, fine, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Vizzini turned to Inigo to rant about their new Iocane powder tea promotion, but Buttercup decided that was something she’d deal with learning about tomorrow.</p><p>“Thank you,” she said to Westley, before he could peel away and off to the train station.  “I’ve been a bit of a beast to you, haven’t  I?  I didn’t mean to.  It’s the stress, I think.”</p><p>“Beastliness is just one stop on the way to civility,” Westley said.  “And as I told you, orders are just another form of affection.”  She blinked at that statement.  Had she been telling him she loved him that whole time?  It seemed impossible.  </p><p>Do you have any lunch plans?” he asked.  “There’s a wonderful place at the end of the block that sells bmts. The mutton in them is fork tender, or so I’ve been told.” </p><p>Buttercup’s answer came out in a surprised and stuttered gasp.  “None.  None at all.  And I’d be delighted to.”  </p><p>Westley smiled and offered her his hand.  </p><p>Maybe, Buttercup decided, sliding her fingers into his grip as they passed by other stores, other people living their mundane workaday lives together, the name Westley wasn’t so bad after all.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>You said the words "Princess Bride Coffee Shop AU" and my brain said "yes, please!"  Hope you like how this came out!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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